


awake, my love, the night is done / awake, my love, the day is won

by Lou_Writes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (as of today), Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Light Angst, Missing Scene, One Shot, Post-War for the Dawn, post-Long Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:36:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lou_Writes/pseuds/Lou_Writes
Summary: After the Battle for the Dawn, Jon goes looking for Sansa.





	awake, my love, the night is done / awake, my love, the day is won

**Author's Note:**

> another episode, another missing scene. honestly, d+d, i'm doing your work for you at this point

The Night King was dead. Jon hadn’t seen it happen, but he’d seen the great gaping mouth of the undead dragon close forever, watched its reanimated corpse collapse onto the rubble of Winterfell like a bird shot out of the sky. He’d seen the wights fall, too, graceless and graceful, the final steps in a strange, sad dance whose movements he had never quite understood. The living, the dead, friends and reluctant allies, strangers for whom he would have given his life: they were nothing now. Just limp bodies whose blood was already turning to crimson ice. Benjen Stark had died for this. Jeor Mormont had died for this. _Hundreds_ of his brothers had died for this. Thousands who had lived yesterday, who had sat at the tables in the Lord’s Hall and toasted to the future, would be found dead before dawn. And for what? The mere snuffing of a candle. The Night King was dead.

 

Jon felt nothing.

 

It took several moments for him to notice Sam shoving at his shoulder. He turned to face him and the world snapped back into focus. His friend’s face, which was always so kind and open and trusting, was smeared with blood and shit. He wondered if Sam’s father would be proud of his son for fighting, and surviving. _If Dany hadn’t—_ no. He couldn’t think about that now. It would just make him sick.

 

“Jon!” Sam was shouting. Jon blinked at him.

 

“What is it?” he responded, his voice thick with ash and mud and ice. Sam was looking at him like he thought maybe they hadn’t won at all, like maybe there was still one undead creature standing in the courtyard. Jon swallowed. His throat burned. _Maybe he’s right_.

 

“It’s over, Jon,” Sam said. “It’s over. Your brother and sister survived. It’s done.”

 

 _It can’t be over,_ Jon wanted to scream. _I’m still here._

 

“But something…” Sam continued. He took a breath. “The crypts. I think something—”

 

Jon took off running.

 

*

 

 _It’s okay,_ he told himself, _it’s okay, she insisted on staying with her people, she insisted on staying on the walls._ But then, he had made Arya promise that if the fighting got too bad, she would make sure to bring her to the crypts, would knock her out and _drag_ her there if she had to. _She was meant to be protected._

 

Words from long ago echoed in his head. _No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone._ Jon Snow hadn’t dreamed since the Red Woman brought him back, but he knew that if he did, it would be of her. Of her surety when she told him that. _No one can protect me._

 

He had hoped to prove her wrong.

 

The hallways of Winterfell flew by him—empty, cold, so different from the warm and bustling castle he remembered from his childhood. He could feel the ghosts of ages past staring at him as he ran. His father _(liar liar liar liar he’s not your—),_ Ned, the Hand of the King pin spurting blood down the front of his doublet. Rickon, auburn curls caked in mud from the battlefield where Jon had gone to die. Robb, with a severed direwolf head for a crown. Even Catelyn, and her eyes were the cruelest. _Well, bastard_ (not a bastard not a bastard not a bastard), _you’re alive, and she’s dead. I guess this is what you’ve always wanted._ He bit his tongue to keep from screaming into the shadows.

 

He came upon the entrance to the crypt with little recollection of how he’d gotten there. Bodies were stacked against the door, bodies wearing the armor they’d given to the smallfolk who had no armor of their own, but he couldn’t bring himself to pity them, the dead who were never meant to be warriors. Farmers, butchers, brothel owners and innkeepers: they hadn’t asked to fight, to die, but neither had anyone else. Neither had Jon Snow.

 

He pulled at their limbs and their clothing, his fingers going numb as soon as they made contact with frozen skin. He heard something, a rumbling at the edge of his consciousness, and for a moment he was sure the dead had returned, of course they had, how could he have been so stupid to believe they had won—

 

but it was his voice, he realized. His voice, repeating one thing, over and over again. Her name.

 

His fingers were bloody by the time he set aside the final body. (It was just a boy—Bran’s age, maybe younger, _he never should have been fighting, not yet a man and dead already_ —). He pounded on the stone slab, beating the feeling back into his palms with every hit.

 

“Is anybody in there?” he cried. _Where were the others? Where was Sam? Why was nobody helping him?_ “It’s Jon Snow, it’s your Lord, it’s—it’s over, please, please come out. You’re safe now.” He could have laughed at that. _No one can protect anyone._

 

There was a moment of silence—Jon swore he was dead again, that would be better than this, this not knowing, this double state of fear and anticipation—and then there was a great groaning of stone against stone. The door opened a crack, and Jon found himself looking down at the face of Tyrion Lannister.

 

“It’s over,” Jon repeated. “I’m telling the truth. Open the door.” Tyrion did as he was told.

 

Suddenly, a stream of women in tattered wool and musty fur began to pour forth from the crypts, and Jon noticed with increasing terror that most of them were injured, some bearing corpses of children, others clutching at untouched babies with mangled arms and bloodied hands. He noticed Gilly and little Sam—safe, thank the gods, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Daenerys’ companion, Missandei, was the only one to actually stop: she looked at Jon, wordless, and when he realized she was waiting for something he gave a short nod. Whether she was asking after Dany or her lover, he didn’t know, but when he nodded, her face broke into a smile that could light the Long Night. _I suppose it will,_ he thought.

 

When the stream of refugees began to thin, Jon elbowed his way into the crypt, past Tyrion, who was ushering people out, past Varys, who looked at Jon in a way he had no time to question. He found himself running again, moving so quickly he didn’t notice the cracked tombs and crushed bodies except in passing. He called out to her, praying to every god he knew that she would answer him.

 

“Jon?” he heard, and he turned towards the sound.

 

His arms were around her before she could say anything else.

 

*

 

Sansa clutched her brother fiercely, burying her face in the juncture of his neck. He smelled of smoke and dirt and blood and excrement, and she found herself thinking she had never smelt anything better. He was alive—Jon, her Jon, was _alive—_ and warm, always so warm, and his arms around her felt like coming home. Too soon, he pulled away, but then his lips were on her forehead and he was murmuring inaudible thanks into her hair.

 

She pulled back to look at him. “Jon, is—Arya? Bran?”

 

“Yes,” Jon said. “They made it. They’re safe.”

 

When the tears came, they came without warning. He held her until they stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> there may be a second chapter--we'll see. or I'll just publish it as another one shot.  
> also no disrespect to catelyn stark (i love her) but i think the voice in jon's head that sounds like catelyn is probably a real dick


End file.
